MY UNCLE PETER.
"Why don't you write a story, Percy?" said his mother to him next morning at breakfast.
"Plenty of quill-driving at Somerset-House, mother. I prefer something else in the holidays."
"But I don't like to see you showing to disadvantage, Percy," said his uncle kindly. "Why don't you try?"
"The doctor-fellow hasn't read one yet. And I don't think he will."
"Have patience. I think he will."
"I don't care. I don't want to hear it. It's all a confounded bore. They're nothing but goody humbug, or sentimental whining. His would be sure to smell of black draught. I'm not partial to drugs."
The mother frowned, and the uncle tried to smile kindly and excusingly. Percy rose and left the room.
"You see he's jealous of the doctor," remarked his mother, with an upward toss of the head.
The colonel did not reply, and I ventured no remark.